Of all the people to define appropriate topics for the workplace, it should not be me (please see my post, “I am not at fault: the coming out, and then sudden retraction, of my role as a perpetrator of sexual harassment”). And yet, despite my many years of wildly inappropriate conversations with coworkers, I continue to be surprised by the shit that is said. But me, I am the most forgiving co-worker you will meet, recognizing that we all have judgment lapses. Like the guy who told me that he went the to local bikini barista stand for a cup of coffee and could totally see the barista’s labia hanging out of her cutoffs. But, because these coffee stands are known prostitution rings and always getting busted, I take this comment as one of concern for the well-being of women in the sex trafficking trade, and quietly grant him forgiveness. Although I think his goal was to get a reaction from me but no such luck, dickwad, because I will top your labia-comments with my “Labia? I could see her fucking cervix!!” comment. And so again I say, who am I to judge others? Except, I think the difference is that when push comes to shove, when I’m talking to our department director and not my boss, or a co-worker and not my sister, I have a pretty good idea of when to STOP TALKING, thanks, in part, to my STD.
Example: Within the first month of being hired at my current job, I had to join a team ‘out in the field’ to audit an agency, which meant lunch away from the safety of my cubicle, and in public, in the foodcourt of a crappy mall down the road from the agency, the kind of mall that has BedBathandBeyond as its anchor shop, but someday soon will open a DSW, too! The four of us split up to get our nasty-ass greasy phad thai or hot cheese plate (possibly a burrito under the cheese?) and meet up in the Center Court, joining the other mall-goers: shuffling retirees from a nearby retirement home (does the home load them into a van and drop them off at the mall everyday? Or are they runaways, looking for that farm they grew up on in 1923?) and shopping nuns (apparently a nearby nunnery?).
[Sidebar: how are these folks keeping the mall afloat? I mean, how many bath products or “as seen on TV” purchases can a nun make?]
But then, in the food court, there’s also, inexplicably, a clown. Sure, there is a small stage near the Gottschalks, probably for REO Speedwagon shows when they can’t get into the local casino, but still, clown doesn’t seem to be a good fit for the mall-inhabitants, if for no other reason that CLOWNS ARE REALLY FUCKING CREEPY AND ARE NEVER A GOOD FIT FOR ANYTHING, EVER. Seriously, tell me, under what circumstances is it okay for a man (are there female clowns? Don’t answer that) to disguise his face, wear bright clothing designed to attract children, hand out candy and balloon animals, drawing the children ever closer, so that he can pick out the shyest, most vulnerable little boy and whisper in his ear: “it’s okay, don’t be scared. Your mom trusts me,” (note: I am not including “French clowns” in this category, because although they are also totally fucking queer (and I mean that in the gayest way), at least they work from afar in drab clothing and refuse to even acknowledge their audience. Also I think the French hate children, but mostly because children don’t smoke, especially not in sidewalk cafes wearing black and white striped shirts and red berets). Okay, but there’s no show going on, no event like a store-opening or a child’s birthday party (in the mall?? I don’t know; I’m grasping at straws here). It’s just a fucking clown, wandering around the food court in a sad sort of way (new thought: baggy pants, ideal for hiding guns to kill everyone in the mall).
So I immediately get excited because now is the perfect opportunity to tell my clown-rape joke that I always tell wrong (I think it goes– what’s the worst part about being a clown? Getting the blood out of your costume). But see, I don’t just jump in and tell the joke. I stop. Better test the waters: I say, “Clowns are so creepy.” The reaction from the table is, “yes, a lot of children are scared of clowns.” Hmm, not the direction I was going. So I keep testing, dying to tell my clown-rape joke. “Like, they are grown men around children.” No one bites, and I’m not sure if this is because I’m the only one that makes an immediate clown/pedo connection, or if this really just doesn’t even occur to them.
So I drop it.
See? Not the best judgment in the beginning, but enough to STOP, TEST, DROP.
STD.
So why do I bring all of this up? I’ll set the scene:
First, Seattleites seem to me like nothing more than just, you know, regular folks. I mean I’m sure everyone feels this way about the people in their town because it just makes sense that if everyone is wearing a paper bag as a hat, well, there’s nothing novel or noticeable about it. So, yeah, whether homeless or bank CEO, everyone in the Seattle city limits kind of blends together to me. But then? You leave the city, and suddenly you realize that there really is a difference between urban and suburban dwellers, down to their clothing from Lamont’s and not Ann Taylor; or their shitty haircut from their neighbor and not a $75 cut from Vain in Belltown; suffering from congestive heart failure and not a member of 24HR fitness. My point is that the receptionist at my office clearly stands out as the “one of these things that’s not like the other” but in mostly subtle ways. Do you see what I’m trying to say here? I’m dancing around this, trying to be cool, but there you go, this is the protagonist of my story. Let’s call her Crystal, because when I think of rural/suburban women, most likely dressed in scuffed white shoes, I assume they are named Crystal.
Part of me enjoys Crystal’s outlandish comments, although once, after she did all this prep work for some big presentation, I asked how she was holding up, and she responds, “they just dump everything on me like I’m their ni**er slave.”
HOLY FUCK.
Should I add that she’s white? Do I need to say that? So, I’m okay with “where my niggas at?” under very specific circumstances, like in the privacy of your own home and directed to your pugs, but otherwise it feels really super uncomfortable for me to say, or hear that word, that HARD R, but there it was, and it wasn’t okay for her to say, but you know, different (racist) strokes.
Months later… I’m at my desk. Crystal comes by, dropping off some bullshit letter that needs to be signed by me (we aren’t allowed to print out and sign our letters without it first going through a slew of other folks who don’t give a shit but are presumably formatting and double checking things like CC’s and attachments but I suspect aren’t actually looking that closely at it, so why are we generating more work for these already overworked admin workers?), and for the most part, she prefers to not get up and move around, and I know that there are health issues, pain and discomfort (I think it’s safe to say that she also just doesn’t want to talk to anyone, so WHY IN GOD’S NAME is she a receptionist?), but you know, I get it because I could never do her job. She stops, lays the letter on my desk, and emits a heavy sigh. Which is fine; I know what’s coming, and I’m a safe person to complain to; I enjoy the gossip and drama of working here (the more mundane the job, the more drama there is).
Me: What’s up?
Crystal: Ugh, my arm. It’s killing me.
Me: Why?
Crystal: I fell waiting for the bus [lifts arm… as evidence?] last Friday, which by the way was my anniversary and it totally ruined the whole weekend, it was just shot to hell.
Me: How can a sore hand ruin a whole weekend?!
Crystal: Well, you can’t give a blow job like this… [demonstrates, and includes hand and mouth gestures, and shlurping noises]
HOLY FUCKING FUCK!!!!!
I was stunned, like actually unable to react. It takes me a beat or two to respond with an…”oh, wow… that’s too bad.” She walks away, and I’m in my chair, looking around, wide-eyed and dropped-jaw, to see if anyone else caught this interaction, but people seem to be going on with their daily lives, and I imagine that this is what it’s like to be taken by aliens and probed and then dropped back down and all within a blink of an eye so no one else even knows what happened, and will never believe you. I am alone with my new knowledge and fear. I immediately email The Sisters. Alice: NUH-UH!! Hattie’s response: Don’t you guys have sensitivity training as government employees?
And you know what? As soon as she said “Hand” and “Anniversary Weekend Ruined” I did think of blow jobs because that’s where my mind goes, except I did a little STD.
STOP: Don’t say blowjob out loud. TEST: I can’t test! This is happening live, people! And no one would ever, ever say that to a coworker, so nothing to test. DROP: Sure, it’s a funny idea, but keep it to yourself, because who in the world is spending their entire weekend giving blowjobs, besides sex workers? And also, I’m not dissing oral sex, and I’ll leave it at that, but seriously, isn’t it your weekend, too? Your anniversary? I mean, the whole weekend??? You as the giver (or receiver, don’t know how you look at it)? Maybe your husband can get off his recliner long enough to return the sentiment or maybe see that you are injured and just treat you, his lovely blushing bride, to some sticky shlurping of your own?
And so there I was, hearing about something that I would never even say to The Sisters, unless I was joking which I could totally see happening, especially loudly, in a fancy-pants restaurant with my parents at the table. Not even to a best friend would this come up, and not even if really fucking drunk. So… a co-worker??
Dumbfounding.
To you, reader, I offer my STD, and a bit of wisdom: bikini baristas and blowjobs are not appropriate topics for work. Learn from me.